A Thousand Faces
by wallyflower
Summary: Some time after the second wizarding war, there is a man living in Grimmauld Place: a complete stranger who is somehow familiar. A love story in two parts.


Canon-compliance: EWE, but as with most of my stories I may not be too consistent with the details of HBP and DH. I don't know when I will ever have the heart to reread either of those books, and whatever canon errors are left after a fact-check at the Harry Potter wiki are mine and mine alone. (Fact checking is the least fun part of writing. I spent thirty minutes verifying if Hermione Granger witnessed the death of Severus Snape, and if that wasn't just something left over in my mind from millions of words of fanfic.)

This is a love story.

/ \ / \ / \

Hermione was in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place when she first met Max Helter. She was caught unawares, one hand on an empty glass and another on a milk carton, when he was first brought in crashing through the kitchen door, one arm slung around Arthur Weasley's shoulders. He was a fine specimen of a man with ash-blond hair and broad shoulders, and Hermione caught herself swaying for a moment, disoriented by something familiar in those half-asleep black eyes; but surely he was a stranger, and he had never met her before, because she would have remembered.

Mr Weasley, followed by George, laid the unknown man on the kitchen table; one of the man's arms hung over the side, unnoticed by his companions. All three men were soaked with rain and mud and their cloaks made puddles on the floor that Hermione, Ginny and Mrs Weasley had cleaned only that morning. Hermione's eyes were fixed on the man, whose eyes fell shut the moment his head hit the table.

"Quick, Dad!" George was saying. "We have to seal that gash in his leg first. That's the biggest one; we'll deal with the rest after that."

Hermione, milk carton abandoned, watched as George and Mr Weasley cut the thick fabric of the man's trousers. She was unable to help herself from blurting out, "Wait! We need to dry him off first, then clean off the mud. And then do a few _Antisepsis_ spells—we don't want him to get infected—"

For the first time since barging in through the door, the two men seemed to notice her presence in the kitchen. Mr Weasley favored her with a warm, if harried smile, and George said hastily, "Oh, gods, you're right. Do you want to help? I haven't really been practicing my spells lately, and I was never—I mean Fred was—I mean healing spells have never been my strong suit."

Hermione was already rolling up the sleeves of her dressing gown. The summer before—the summer before what was supposed to be their seventh year at Hogwarts—Hermione had read up on healing spells, practicing them on anything from bananas to unsuspecting rabbits in Ottery St Catchpole. She struggled to remember the things she had taught herself; she reminded herself of the reality and gravity of the situation for there was a pulse here, a real man of flesh and flowing bood, smelling of wet grass. First to clean, and then to resuscitate and to heal. That was it. Steady on.

When she was finished with her new patient—when the blond man was dry and when the gash had been sealed, and a weary George and Arthur Weasley had fallen asleep with heads cradled on top of folded arms on the Grimmauld kitchen table—when the sun had come up to illuminate the drying stains on the floor and the healed products of Hermione's labors—the patient himself blinked his eyes open, supported himself on his elbows, and gave Hermione a warm smile of gratitude, sweet and guileless. In hindsight, she supposed it all went downhill from there.

/ \ / \ / \

There was nothing subtle about Hermione's probing the next day; but then as Professor Snape, her old Potions master and known murderer of Albus Dumbledore, had said cuttingly to her once, subtlety had never been one of her strengths. She questioned Molly Weasley quite openly about the strange man who had come to stay at Grimmauld Place, but Molly was distracted upon finding the newly cleaned floor a mess, her husband gone again (The family clock said "you just missed him") and Hermione wide-awake and running on adrenaline.

"Yes, yes," Hermione was saying when Ginny came down to breakfast. "But what's his _name_? And why haven't we seen him before?"

"What's this about?" Ginny looked ill-prepared for interesting conversation in the morning. Her hair was nearly as wild as Hermione's own, and her clothes were rumpled as though she had slept in them. Hermione supposed that she had, since part of the Burrow had been burn to the ground only a few weeks previously, and among the possessions destroyed had been most of Ginny's clothes.

"A man was brought here before sunrise; I saw your dad and George come in while I was getting a glass of milk, and they were half-carrying him, and we had to heal his wounds—they were magical, and ghastly." Ginny didn't seem to really be paying attention but Hermione went on. "Apart from me and Harry and your brothers, I've never seen anyone brought in here who wasn't an Order member, so I have to assume—"

"Yes, of course, Hermione, he's a member of the Order." Molly took a seat beside her daughter. She sounded tired. Her spoon banged against the walls of her teacup and Hermione waited expectantly for her to elaborate. "One of the old crowd. He's a few years younger than me and your father," she added, glancing at Ginny, who was looking sullenly at her piece of toast.

"So he was at Hogwarts?" Hermione's mind was working quickly. She would have given her beaded bag at the moment to be able to peer into Hogwarts library and its collection of school annuals.

"He used to teach in Hogwarts if I remember right. Herbology or something or other. We didn't go to school with him; he went to Durmstrang but Dumbledore recruited him to teach a few years later. Long before your or the twins' time; I think Percy might have taken a few of his classes." Molly gave Hermione a sharp, penetrating look. "Is there a reason you're so curious about Max, Hermione?"

"Max! Max who?"

"Max Helter."

"So _that's_ his name."

"Yes. I expect, Hermione dear, you'll be seeing a lot more of the old crowd these days. Since this business with Lucius Malfoy being Kissed—" and Hermione admired the way the older woman kept her face neutral at these words—"and all of his sympathizers causing trouble… Hunting us down like animals! So if you could, maybe, try…"

"What Mum's trying to say," Ginny interrupted her mother testily, "is that you should be a little less obvious about the fact that you don't trust Order members you haven't met before."

Hermione had been about to ask something else—had been about to ask, is he married? Does he have children?—but she restrained herself, instead thanking Mrs Weasley and passing Ginny the pumpkin juice. She realized then that her curiosity about the man had been taken as distrust, and she was at turns disturbed and relieved by it; for it had not been distrust at all, but the beginnings of fascination.

/ \ / \ / \

After feigning disinterest for a whole day, she found him asleep in one of the bedrooms on the third floor, close to George Weasley's. George himself was sitting in a chair outside the room, fast asleep; the door next to him was ajar, and Hermione, containing her excitement, whispered a charm to silence the creaking door as she opened it.

Max Helter was lying on a bed close to the grimy window, the gray light illuminating the book lying open on his stomach. It was not unreasonable to be curious about Max, as Hermione had taken to calling him in her mind; she had found something intimate in the healing of his wounds, and there was also a curious attractiveness in that pale face, as well as an air of mystery as to his origins. He had the looks of a wizard in his late forties or early fifties—someone who had once been athletic, but whose life had taken a more sedentary turn. Hermione could not deny that the angle of the jaw, the intensity of gaze, and the straight nose made for a very handsome face, and that this handsomeness was part of the reason that she was so drawn to him.

Thrilled to find that he had been reading a book, she moved closer to him with the intention of taking the book and closing it properly, as well as peeking at the title. The moment her hands touched the cover, however, her wrists were enclosed in a grip strong enough for bruises to bloom on the skin under his hands.

Hermione gave a small squeal, and the book dropped to the ground, unheeded and its pages creasing. Max Helter was fixing her with a penetrating, almost angry stare, and it reminded her that he was fully adult, fully powerful and completely a stranger to her.

"Miss Granger," he said curtly. "Are you so pressed for reading materials that you must take mine for your own?"

Hermione was about to splutter a defense, when she caught in his eyes—wonder of wonders—a hint of amusement. The thin mouth was curled upwards slightly. Despite herself she smiled widely.

"I wasn't trying to steal it, sir," she heard herself saying, adding the honorific almost unconsciously. I'm talking too fast again, she told herself, but was unable to stop. "I just passed by this hallway, and I saw George, and I peeked in, and I saw that you fell asleep with your book lying wide open, and I thought it could get damaged, and I remember how my mum always said to take care of books, and their spines, because breaking the spine of a book is like—"

"—breaking the spine of a friend," Max Helter finished for her, and he gave a mirthless laugh. "Yes, and of course I should know."

Hermione regarded him for a moment, the smile arrested on her face. He seemed to recover almost immediately, however, and wandlessly summoned the book before handing it to Hermione. "Here," he said. "Since you are so intent on taking away a man's only source of entertainment, you may have it."

"I suppose it must be very boring for you around here," she said, taking the book and looking at the title. It was a bound collection of journals from the Cheverell Institute of Magic. She felt suddenly very young and untutored, for she had only read casually through the (admittedly lacking) collection of magical journals in Hogwarts library. She felt sure that she would be able to understand the articles therein, but unsure about offering an expert opinion. How she would have liked to ably discuss scholarly things, she thought distractedly, with another person of an intellectual bent.

"Molly Weasley won't let me out of bed. I think she might be related to Poppy Pomfrey."

"You know Madame Pomfrey too!" Hermione hugged the book to her chest. It was so intimate, exchanging words in a darkened room with only the gray sky outside for an audience. "Oh, that's right, Mrs Weasley said you used to teach at Hogwarts. Didn't you teach Herbology? I mean, I only ask because the JCIM doesn't really publish articles on herbology, doesn't it usually deal with…" she trailed off at the look on his face—again a curious mix of mock exasperation and amusement.

"Yes, the Institute teaches Potions, Transfiguration and Charms," he said. He appraised her, sitting up against the banked pillows and regarding her with the beginnings of a smile. "I've heard many things about you, Miss Granger, and it appears I've received a fairly correct impression. Do you have any interest in studying in the Institute?"

"Oh, yes." Be adult, Hermione, she told herself. You are not talking to Lavender or Parvati, so there is no need to gush. Pretend he's Professor Snape and be level-headed. "I finished at Hogwarts this year, and I've submitted my application because I think their Potions program sounds excellent. But it requires a two-year apprenticeship with one of their Professors beforehand, and I'm just not sure…" At this she trailed off. It was difficult to conceive of a future beyond these next months, these next days.

These days—two years after the final confrontation with Voldemort, and a year after Hogwarts had been rebuilt and she had been allowed to continue her final year of schooling—Hermione often stopped herself from thinking about her future. Her plans began and ended with these days in Grimmauld place, hiding from Voldemort's and Lucius Malfoy's anonymous sympathizers who had burnt down the Burrow and almost burnt down the Granger house only weeks ago.

Max's voice—or perhaps she should have been calling him Professor Helter—interrupted her thoughts. "I'm sure you would be a credit to any field, Miss Granger. Potions, then?" he added casually.

"Oh, well, sometimes I think about it," she said with a shake of the head. "I'm nowhere near good enough."

"Why would you say that? Are you not top of your year?"

"It isn't that. I can follow Potions instructors as well as the next person." Or perhaps better, but there was no need to mention this. "But looking at Professor Snape's improvised notes—he was our Potions teacher, you must know him—I think the field calls for a lot more innovation and natural talent than I've got."

"Professor Snape." Max said the words without venom; his face was devoid of expression, and Hermione looked away. She thought of how the name of Dumbledore was like a whisper in the house, hiding in all of the rooms and in the creaking of the doorways; how every single person present—whether Harry and Ron hiding out in their rooms and sulking or reading, or Ginny and Molly talking softly over tea in the kitchen—felt the loss of the man with a genuine, impotent grief.

In Hermione's sixth year at Hogwarts, Harry had stood in a tower and watched Professor Snape kill Professor Dumbledore, beloved headmaster and father-figure to Harry and Hermione herself. She thought fleetingly of how she would never see those eyes again—never be able to sit across him in the Headmaster's office to tell him something. Never be offered a lemon drop again. It was an attack of grief and Hermione closed her mind against it, for every time she thought of Severus Snape as anything but her teacher—every time she had sat down and tried to puzzle out how a good man could look into those blue eyes and whisper the Avada—she felt that she might never recover from the unhappiness.

Severus Snape's trial was going on in absentia while he was missing and presumed dead, and as the courts turned over the facts and fought to arrive at a consensus of Snape's character, so Hermione's heart and mind were also at war regarding the man. She didn't know whether to grieve for the man whose death she believed she had witnessed—she had watched the blood soaking into the floorboards of the Shrieking shack, all those months ago—or to be glad that she would never have to face him again.

"Yes." She cleared her throat. She knew a moment of relief—the grief and consuming bewilderment had passed, and she could look at the man on the bed again. Hermione focused on the feeling of the book in her hands—its solidity, its weight. She remembered that she'd been enjoying herself moments ago, and that the weight of this mysterious man's stare on her, as well as the obvious intellect behind the voice and the eyes, had been novel and even thrilling. She moved closer to the bed and offered him the book, but he waved a hand dismissively.

"You may take it," he said lightly. "I find myself growing weary of reading journals. Very stimulating, to be sure, but hardly the stuff for a relaxing recovery."

She hugged the book to her chest. A book borrowed—the excuse to talk again—perhaps the start of more… Choosing her words carefully, she said in as casual a manner as she could muster, "I could try to bring you something else, if you'd like."

A slow, appreciative smile, showing genuine gratitude. "If it wouldn't be too inconvenient for you."

"Not at all," she said hastily. "I'd be glad to bring you something, either from my own trunk or from the library here. Do you like any particular genre?"

"I'm sure to enjoy whatever you bring me," he said promptly, and Hermione felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. She had never been charmed before—never been flattered so smoothly—and she felt naïve and unprepared. "I would, however, prefer something from your library. I've met Sirius Black and his family, and I highly doubt they could harbor anything in this house that would interest me."

/ \ / \ / \

She agreed, and he agreed, and that had been that—or so it should have been. Perhaps it should have ended with her giving him a stack of books and leaving him to his devices, allowing him to recover in the privacy of the upstairs rooms while she forgot about him and directed her energies to finishing her summer homework, to revising, to researching spells that could come in handy in the near future, to spending time with her mourning friends.

Hermione, however, had never been much good at ignoring challenges.

Partly it had begun as a challenge to herself—to see if she could hold and keep the interest of a man twice her age and maybe with a greater intellect than her own. She had wanted to be interesting and to be wanted, and it had been a more selfish motive than she would have admitted to anyone else. It wasn't long, however, before she would find herself in the middle of one of their interactions and realize that there was no selfishness in the way she looked at him, and he at her.

/ \ / \ / \

Harry looked tired. A week after Max Helter's arrival, Hermione found Harry slumped over the kitchen table and picking at the left-overs that Molly had kept under a warming charm for him.

"Hey," she said, and he acknowledged her with a half-wave. She seated herself across him, putting down her book. "Did you just come from the Ministry?"

He nodded, eyes still fixed on his corned beef. "It was a horrible morning. It's bound to be over soon now, though, thank God."

"How's the trial going?"

"I think they're leaning towards some sort of amnesty. Examining those memories Snape left me took a lot longer than I thought it would—they had to check for even the slightest manipulation or alteration—but thankfully they didn't find anything. There's a couple of people on the Wizengamot who just won't stand down though. I wish they'd give it up. Snape's not a danger to them now anyway, and he did more than enough for us during the past few years that honoring his memory would be the least they could do—"

"Oh Harry, is this still about the portrait?"

"Of course it's about the portrait. All I want is for him is to have a portrait in Hogwarts, same as any other Headmaster. He protected the students as much as he could while he was there. It stands to reason!"

"I'm not sure I agree with you entirely about that, but go on; why won't they agree to the portrait?"

"It turns out those Headmaster portraits are really expensive and they can't get the Hogwarts board to agree to the expense; I even offered to pay out of my own pocket but they told me it was a matter of _principle. _But even worse than that, they say they can't pup up a portrait of someone they weren't sure was dead."

She exhaled in frustration. "What on earth? We both saw him die. I wish we hadn't, but we did, and didn't we already give up our memories to be examined? What more proof do they need?"

"A body would be a good start. The Presumption of Death rule says he won't be presumed dead if we don't have a body, at least until four years have passed."

Harry was still picking at his food. She looked at him worriedly. She supposed she had been neglecting her friends a little. She had once mothered Harry so closely that she had been after him to eat every meal, and would even prompt him to take showers when he neglected them, which advice he took with more grace than Ron ever would have. She took his hand across the table, and Harry looked at her and smiled wanly.

"You don't think he's alive somewhere, do you, Harry?" she asked.

He shuddered. "God, I hope not. At first I was so sorry that he was dead, I would have given up anything to be able to go back in time to undo those last minutes that we saw him alive."

Hermione felt her face flush. "I—I actually tried to."

Harry looked at her sharply, then laughed, a sharp barking noise. "Wh-what? How? When?"

"Only a few times," she said hastily. "Soon after it was all over. In all the confusion I looked through the library to read a bit on the consequences of altering a timeline that way. I was fairly sure no one but us had been around to watch him die, so if no one had, then our memories would be the only thing tying that event, in its strictest details, to reality. I did a few arithmantic calculations, and I found that there was a small possibility I could save him if I just went back when his body had already been abandoned and administered an antidote to the anticoagulant venom. I knew I only needed about three minutes, but Professor McGonagall wouldn't let me have my old time-turner, and I couldn't find a working one in what was left from the fiendfyre…"

They were silent for a few moments, before Harry shrugged and began eating with a bit more gusto. Hermione smiled. "I guess it's for the best. He—he lived a very useful life. I wouldn't want him to come back to the Wizarding world as it is now anyway."

Hermione nodded, sobering. Furthermore, in a classic act of hypocrisy as only the Ministry could manage, the authorities had already taken possession of Snape's few belongings and estate, even though they refused to presume him dead so that Harry could get the Headmaster's portrait he so wanted. With most of Hogwarts in ruins and his possessions taken away, even if he were alive somewhere, Severus Snape would have nothing to come back to.

Harry continued, "I wish the trial would be over so Mr Weasley wouldn't have to spend so much time thinking about it and taking me. He's got the Burrow to worry about rebuilding, and those rogue Death-Eaters won't catch themselves."

"I thought the Aurors were handling it?"

"I thought that too, but Mr Weasley said something to me this week about calling on some older members of the Order of the Phoenix for help tracking them down, or at least for help in protecting us. He told me you've met Max?"

The thrill of hearing the name mentioned made Hermione smile; thankfully Harry missed it. "I was here when he came in. Was he one of the old crowd they called in?"

"He was living in the Hebrides I think when Mr Weasley asked for help. The night before he came here, he was in a pub gathering information about Lucius Malfoy's supporters."

"Oh gods. That's probably how he got wounded. I never got around to asking." She hadn't; she had been too curious about other things.

"It was. Unfortunately before he could suss out more, one of the would-be Death-Eaters got suspicious and tried to cut him—good thing he got away. Too bad Max couldn't get more information though. Since the attacks, including the ones on the Burrow and on your old house, looked very organized, it made sense that at least one group of people would be behind the plotting and doing, probably a close friend of Lucius Malfoy's or someone in their inner circle."

"I had hoped they had caught them all. It's likely someone on the fringes made it out, though. Poor Mr Weasley! He's had no rest."

"Or George. I wonder when it will be safe to rebuild the Burrow," Harry said while chewing; this didn't bother Hermione as much as it had before.

"I wonder when it will be safe to even go out," she said. "We can't even go into Diagon Alley, and I still get worried every time you and Mr Weasley go into the Ministry."

"It's a good thing Grimmauld at least is safe. You're feeling a bit trapped, aren't you?" She nodded. "Ginny is, too. I wish she'd talk to me about it though."

"She won't talk to me about it either. Do you have any idea why she's so sullen?"

He shrugged. He began tidying up his plate and she got up to help him, putting the rest of the leftovers into what passed for an icebox in Grimmauld place.

"I honestly think," Hermione ventured, "that she and Ron are just mourning. Neither of them have had any tasks they can devote their energies to for the past few days. I've had my books and you've had the trial and your campaign for Snape's portrait, and I suppose Ron and Ginny could amuse themselves too, but then neither of us have lost a brother…"

Harry nodded, swallowing. "I'm not sure what to do for Ron."

Hermione tried to smile, squeezing Harry's arm as they made their way upstairs. "He'll be all right," she said reassuringly. "Once Hogwarts is up and running, and Ginny will be able to go back to school, she'll be all right, too."

Harry looked at her, pausing on the stair. "And you? Are you all right?"

She squeezed his hand. "Never better."

/ \ / \ / \

In some ways she _had _never been better. Her education had been put on hold, her parents were far away, her childhood home had been partly burned down by Lucius Malfoy's sympathizers and she feared that two of her closest friends would never be the same, but for the first time in her life she was able to be useful in small domestic ways rather than to plan how she and the boys would survive to see the next sunrise; she was able to sleep in and to read whatever interested her and to give serious thought about her future, and to be grateful for whatever had been spared them. Every day a new Lucius Malfoy lackey—Death-Eaters in all but name and lacking only the tattoo—was caught and put safely behind bars, and soon she was optimistic that life would soon slow down and be as normal as it could be.

And then there was Max.

It was weeks since they had first met and he had started walking again, and had even left the house twice—she gathered for some mission or other, since he came back taciturn and looking a little jaded, though thankfully unhurt, each time. She didn't press him for the specifics of what he was doing, and tried not to verbalize her concern for the times that he left the house when she suspected his leg hadn't fully recovered. Still he was there in his room in the late afternoons, resting, and she was still able to come by, to give him books and to talk softly, and it was the happiest she could remember being in some time.

Long after she and Max began to exchange books—for he had been hiding a small stack of books under the bed, all of them dry and intellectual—and mere days after his second mission outside of Grimmauld Place, Hermione looked up from her book in the Black library as the door slammed open and shut.

She was sitting in an alcove by the fireplace, hidden by a tall shelf of haphazardly-organized references. Through the gaps in the books she could see Max in a flurry of futile activity, pacing before the door and shaking his head, his hands combing through the ash-blond hair again and again. The sight of him always made her feel heady with anticipation—anticipation of the things he would say, of the looks he would give her, of the potential that hung in the air whenever they were alone in his room. Apart from that first surreal meeting in the kitchen, this was the first instance that she had seen him outside of his rooms, and she marveled at the look of him even as she wondered at his obvious distress. He was very graceful.

"Sir? I mean—Max?" she called out hesitantly, standing up, and he whirled around, wand brandished. Stunned—and thinking distractedly that there was something about that defensive stance that was remarkably familiar—she moved so that the shelf would not cover her, and raised her hands in supplication. "Don't shoot," she said, almost dryly. It was the kind of humor he had infected her with.

He lowered his wand, but Max seemed not to relax in the least. He turned away from her and rubbed his eyes.

Cautiously, she came closer. What would he say? Would he turn her away and rebuke her for her familiarity, now that he was no longer in the sickbed and was not dependent on her for company and amusement? Absurd thoughts buzzed through her mind as she crept closer, before putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Is there something wrong?" she whispered. From downstairs she could hear the music coming from one of the big drawing rooms—the noise she had been escaping from—and even coming from such a distance it was louder than anything in this room, louder even than Max Helter's ragged breathing.

He didn't move away from her hand on his shoulder, and for that she was grateful. She had never touched him before, and her fingers memorized every minute detail of the cloth of his robe, the rhythm of the breathing beneath her hand. Slowly he turned around and she dropped her hand, feeling suddenly that she had overstepped her boundaries.

"Lucius Malfoy is in Azkaban," he said, in a voice as devoid of feeling as any she had ever heard.

"Yes," she said, slowly. "That's why most of the Order are celebrating downstairs. He's to be Kissed next week."

He walked past her, unsteadily, closer to the fireplace. She hoped it would bring him some measure of comfort, though for the life of her she couldn't understand why he should be in such apparent agony. She moved to stand in front of him, keeping her distance.

"Did you know him?" she said quietly.

A pause. "Yes," he said, not meeting her eyes. He bent, putting his elbows on his knees and his forehead into the cradle of his palms. "Yes. We were friends. When we were younger."

Hermione could muster no sympathy for Lucius Malfoy, although part of her wondered, with a sort of wistfulness, about what this would do to Narcissa Malfoy and her son. She sensed that to stay quiet would be the best course of action, choosing instead to sit on a nearby couch. She was inexpressibly grateful when he moved to sit next to her, though he remained absorbed in thought. She had returned to her book and was about to turn a page when he surprised her.

"I understand that you were once held hostage in the Malfoy estate," he began hesitantly.

"I—yes," she said, flushing. She shut the book closed. In a moment she would stand up—in a moment she would leave, but not so quickly that he would think it was his fault. She was simply not prepared to talk about those memories, even if he was the one person who had consumed most of her thoughts for the last weeks. No one was privy to that part of her heart.

"I don't know what to say to you," he went on, seeming to pick his words carefully. "I want to apologize for appearing to be in mourning for a man you must have despised, but I also feel that it is not my place to say so. I shouldn't have said anything, I suppose, but I—I would be grateful if you wouldn't go."

How he had read her thoughts she couldn't guess, but at the same time she was flattered by his request for her to stay, and so she chose to remain seated. She turned to him and tried to smile. "Would you like to hear about something interesting I'd been planning, then?" she asked.

"Always," he said, with a smile that caught her off guard.

"I've actually got a present for you," she said. Silly goose! She had hoped to draw it out a bit longer.

"A present! Is it a book for the invalid?"

"That's just the thing—it isn't a book, but I'd hoped to have it before you were up and walking again. It was supposed to keep you company in that awful room. Do you want to see it?"

Curiously he followed her to the alcove where she had been reading, and she scooped to pick up the pot that had arrived for her that morning. It contained a variant of _Atropa belladona_ that she had read about it once of his journals; being a unique variant, it had been cultured with the specific purpose of being particularly decorative, but a Potions group in Russia had discovered that where other _Atropa_ were poisonous, this variant yielded a chemical that had significant promise in knitting together torn muscle. She had thought the variant might interest him and had guessed correctly that Neville Longbottom, whose fascination with Herbology had led him to make connections in various parts of the world, had not only known of the plant's existence but would be able to send her a cutting.

She handed it to him, but Max was looking at her even as he accepted the plant, his face full of wonder. "Where did you get this?"

"I asked a classmate of mine for a cutting. It's terribly pretty, isn't it? Too bad you're no longer an invalid; if you think it'll just end up neglected in your room, tell me now so _I _can take it."

"Not a chance," he said, laughing, and he swung the plant away from her grasp. "I'd already owled Professor Sprout in Hogwarts to ask her for one of these, but she hasn't sent me a reply. I—thank you for the gift."

She wondered if her face looked as flushed as she felt. "No problem. Don't think too poorly of Professor Sprout; they're still rebuilding the charms around Hogwarts and there are only five professors there. I suppose they must be busy and tired most of the time."

He nodded. "I should like to see Hogwarts again, surprisingly. I—what I mean to say is, I didn't have my best years there, but now I feel a strange longing to come help in its rebuilding."

"Maybe when you've recovered a bit more," she said, feeling warm and reveling in the familiarity they shared, that she could say that sort of thing to him. He was still looking at the plant. _Look at me, look at me. _"What do you mean you didn't have your best years there?"

He looked at her sharply then, and he looked away before answering, "Only that I started there as a very young professor. I was one of the youngest the school had ever employed and I was… never able to feel that they respected me. It grew intolerable over time. I was never able to shake the feeling that the other professors couldn't respect me, too."

She frowned. Why would that be? He was handsome and intelligent, was clearly well-read in his field and had the most beautiful manners. He wondered how he would have gotten along with Professor Snape. It had never occurred to her before to wonder how Snape had ever gotten along with his fellow teachers; the most she had known was that he and Professor McGonagall had engaged in sportsmanlike bets during Quidditch season, and she'd often thought that Professor Flitwick seemed fond of him, calling him "My boy" in conversation. Oh, _Snape again, _Snape again filling her thoughts, thoughts of his death and his wasted life pressing on the present and the future. She sucked in a breath and tried to remember what Max had been saying; but now he too seemed lost in thought, staring at the petals of the _Atropa. _

In their silence the music from downstairs seemed suddenly loud. For the first time in days Ron had come out of his rooms, and Ginny with him, and Mr Weasley had put on some old records they'd found in Sirius' room. Some of the other Order members had come over for dinner and they were probably drinking and talking downstairs, the atmosphere uncharacteristically light as they celebrated this one small victory—Lucius Malfoy's transfer to Azkaban and the sentence of his Kissing, as well as the capture of what Arthur Weasley suspected was the last of the sympathizers.

Hermione had been grateful that she didn't have to be present for Malfoy's trial, and had wished heartily that the man would end up with a fate far worse than the Kiss; he was responsible for many of the nightmares that haunted both Ginny's and Hermione's dreams. Still, she looked at the sadness around Max's eyes—those familiar eyes, those oddly compelling eyes. (Did they remind her somehow of Harry's eyes? Was that it?) She spared a moment to think of Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, and how they were feeling this night.

The music now was a sad waltz; the three-quarter beats sang and accompanied the scraping of chairs, and Hermione guessed that some of the Order had probably started dancing, in the way that some celebrations degenerate into tipsy choreography. Before she could help herself, she blurted out, "Would you like to dance?"

He looked at her as if she had grown a tail. "I beg your pardon?"

Her ears were probably a tomato red. "We don't have to. Forget I asked. It was only that I liked the music. It's a little mournful but still the sort of thing you can dance to, if you move a bit slowly. Nevermind, I—"

But he was already putting the _Atropa_ on a table, appearing to recover from his surprise. "No, I wouldn't dream of refusing you. Forgive me. I've already kept you from the celebrations downstairs. At least let's have one dance, and let me thank you for your gift." As he took her hands, he again surprised her by saying, "I might not be very good at this—I haven't done it very often."

"I'll try to be good enough for the both of us," she said with more daring than she felt, and he laughed; and for the duration of the (slightly clumsy) waltz she was caught in that odd medium between happy and wistful, lost in the unfamiliar closeness of someone's body and the smell of his aftershave, and yet unable to keep thinking of Lucius Malfoy, and Draco and Narcissa, and Ginny and Ron and everyone who was mourning, and Professor Snape, whom she had often admired and sometimes loathed.

When the dance was over she hoped that Max would kiss her—it was the sort of thing that happened in her books and the movies she had seen—but he had pressed her hands and stepped away, thanking her warmly for her present; he was out of the door before the waltz's last notes had faded.

/ \ / \ / \

The next day, she didn't have the time to ponder happily and longingly over the dance of the night before. As soon as she had come downstairs to help Mrs Weasley prepare lunch, she was arrested by shouts coming from the kitchen. She ran all the way there and was stopped in her tracks by the sight of Harry curled up on the floor in a puddle of blood.

It was the stuff of her nightmares. For a moment she swayed on her feet and she hated herself for it; this had happened so many times before, and she had already learned self-control and the quick cool determination that had allowed her to survive the past year; was it possible she had unlearned them? Harry whom she loved most in the world; Harry in a pool of his own blood, a gash on his back, screaming in pain. She should have known it wasn't over. Strong hands caught her as she tried to steady herself against a chair; it was Max, and once she was steadily on her feet again he released her and crouched next to Harry. She noticed distractedly that Max seemed to wince a bit as he did so.

Ron was standing beside Harry and babbling, looking wildly between Mr and Weasley's pale faces as he tried to explain. "There were three of them—and we knew we were outnumbered, and we tried to run, but Harry dropped the cloak—"

"Boy!" Max bellowed, in a voice Hermione had never heard him use before, and Ron's stuttering explanations skidded to a halt. Mrs Weasley, also crouched over Harry, had started crying, and Mr Weasley had transfigured towels to press to Harry's back to stop the bleeding. Hermione still stood uselessly where she was, somehow instinctively trusting that Max would have things under control, even when she didn't. Ron looked at him. He probably had never seen Max before, and was caught in slack-jawed surprise.

"Ronald," Max said, more quietly this time, "I need to know what happened, and quickly. Here, Arthur, give me one of those towels—I'll help you. Before we can heal the wound we need to know what happened. You said you ran into trouble?"

"It was my fault," Ron said automatically. His freckles stood out in contrast to the rest of him. Hermione thought how grown-up he seemed in that moment, confessing to his own foolishness. "I told Harry I couldn't stand to be in the house for another day, so I convinced him to Apparate to with me to Hogsmeade. Just for a lark, for some chocolate maybe, since probably all of the troublemakers had been caught and it was probably safe; but while we were leaving we heard someone laugh about how the Ministry was celebrating prematurely and it sounded suspicious and nasty so Harry and I got under the Cloak and tried to follow them. It was three people—about our age, probably students, one girl and two boys—and the girl was saying how her parents wouldn't stand by and watch Lucius Malfoy get Kissed, and there was still a way to get him out.

"And then I think the cloak had slipped a bit or they might have heard us following them, I can't tell which, but before we knew it spells were flying at us. We weren't prepared so we tried to run but Harry dropped the Invisibility Cloak and ran to get it back, and one of his shields slipped and a curse caught him on the back. Hermione, I don't know what it is, does it look familiar to you? The edges are so jagged, and it won't stop bleeding—"

Hermione, who had been staring at him, open mouthed and aghast at their lack of foresight, knelt beside Harry. No amount of compression would stop the bleeding. She thought of Nagini's venom and how Snape's blood had looked exactly like this, briskly bleeding in a way that only a magically created wound could make it run. There weren't even any big arteries superficially on the back, and yet Harry was losing a lot of blood.

Max was already scooping him up. Mrs Weasley and Hermione scrambled to their feet. Harry had lost so much weight that he hung from Max's arms like a rag doll, face scrunched in pain.

"Hogwarts, do you think?" Arthur said urgently. His hands were covered in blood.

"I can only trust Poppy for this," Max replied. "Better not to risk St Mungo's, and it's not something I can handle on my own. I haven't got the potions and the curse feels unfamiliar."

"Is it Dark?"

"It feels like it. Will you go with me?"

Arthur, shaking his head, seemed composed and alert; and Hermione was reminded of why, in Dumbledore's and Snape's absences and with Kingsley's appointment to the Ministry, he had taken charge. "I need to find Kingsley and I need to find out who those children were. If you think that you and Poppy can handle this then I need to go with Ron to find out as much as we can, both about the caster of this curse and whatever her parents are planning. If it worsens and we need St Mungo's, send me a Patronus."

He was interrupted by Harry, who opened his eyes and called, in a strangled voice, for Hermione. His glasses hung off his face; Hermione took and pocketed them, and recovering herself, said to Max, "I'll go with you."

/ \ / \ / \

In her third year, Harry had played a Quidditch match in the rain, wet and half-blind in his glasses; she had called out to him and spelled his glasses dry with an _Impervius. _She had known even then that Harry, bright and clever and brave as he was, would need her for a very long time still; in a world where not all of the adults could be trusted she had made it her goal to keep Harry safe, leaning on herself where she had been unable to lean on others. She had learned to use her mind to their advantage, gathering spells and information that might be unnecessary, but might—some way, some how—be just the thing that Harry needed, as he had needed her _Impervius. _And yet Harry had needed not only her cleverness, but her love, too; and she had no solutions to offer now, half-jogging with Max Helter to the entrance hall of Hogwarts, but Harry needed her even when there was nothing she could do for him. She felt that Max understood this, and was grateful that he said nothing.

She was inexpressibly grateful to see Poppy Pomfrey in the infirmary, though the latter dropped a vial she had been holding the moment she saw Max and Hermione in the doorway. "Hermione Granger! And—Max? Is that you? What's happened to Mr Potter?"

Max seemed stiff and uncomfortable, but Hermione was too worried to give it much thought. They had laid Harry on the nearest bed and already the sheets were bloody. "Poppy," Max said in greeting. "I'm sorry to trouble you. I've been staying with the Weasleys and their boy and Mr Potter ran into a few students in Hogsmeade. This wound on the back is spell-inflicted, and we can't stop the bleeding, and I can't stitch it closed—the muscle refuses to knit together and the blood refuses to coagulate. Is there any way we could get our hands on Fawkes?"

And so it went; as Madam Pomfrey called on Professor McGonagall for help and Max Helter went in search of Fawkes, phoenix tears and Professor Snape's potions, Hermione did as she had always done and stayed with Harry. It was all right now; they were not in the Forest of Dean and she did not have to be the one to manage every scrape; Madam Pomfrey knew better than she did; Hermione could trust them with Harry. It would be all right.

/ \ / \ / \

Two days later it was Ginny who met them at the door. Hermione had almost forgotten how Ginny looked when her face was animated with emotion; for the past months she had hardly seemed to smile or frown, and the most that Hermione saw of her was during meals when she looked blankly at her plate and answered curtly when spoken to. Now Ginny, pale but freshly showered and _alive_, helped Harry limp across the threshold and squeezed Hermione's arm in welcome.

All words of happy reunion were drowned by Ron clattering down the stairs, already starting on his apologies long before his feet met the bottom step. Harry, slightly bewildered at the attention, laughed as Ron continued to say, "It was my fault mate, I'm so sorry, and we wanted to visit you but Dad said we had to stay put where it was safest while they rounded up the last of the troublemakers and it's really the last of them this time or so they hope, and we wanted to get you chocolate frogs but Mum would have cut off my foot if I attempted to step into Hogsmeade again—"

Ginny cut off her brother, turning to look at Max. "I'm sorry, are you Professor Helter?"

Hermione felt immediately that she herself had taken liberties by calling Max by his first name in her head, and was instantly ashamed; he had never expressly given permission but she had taken it. As Max nodded, uncharacteristically quiet in the face of Ginny's curiosity and Ron's enthusiastic apologies.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Weasley. You don't need to call me that, however. Max will do. I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to meet before; I have mostly been recovering upstairs and taking my meals there." He inclined his head toward Ron. "Mr Weasley. Your friend is recovering very well, but if you don't mind me saying so, I'm glad you can see the consequences of your actions. I hope you'll be more careful."

She had never seen Ron more servile or respectful in front of a teacher. He was nodding, taking Harry's arm from Ginny's so he could support the weight. "It won't happen again, sir, I promise," he said, and Harry was laughing; and during the pause in the conversation, as Max was turning to go, Ron blurted out, "Did you really teach in Hogwarts? Do you remember teaching my brother Percy?"

Hermione, watching them from the threshold—Ginny's relief at having Harry home again, Ron alive and animated and more himself; Harry awake and walking, Max being welcomed by her friends—could only think: _never better. _

/ \ / \ / \

It had taken three of Professor Snape's potions to heal Harry's back, and an unholy amount of Phoenix tears; Hermione had sat through it all, and was grateful to be by Harry's side the whole time, but she was glad to be away from Hogwarts where memories of happier times lay around every corner. Grimmauld Place might have been dark and desperately gloomy where Hogwarts was light and welcoming, but here she was able to retreat into her books again, having been prompted by Harry's injury into thinking more about Healing. She spoke to Max about it, asking for his opinion on which institutes offered the better programs. He had only shaken his head.

"I would advise you to give it more thought," he said. "I do not belittle your interest in Healing or question its origins; I only want to caution you against making this decision based on a need which may no longer exist. If you'll permit me to say so, Hermione," he added more gently, "we are no longer at war, and you are free to learn whatever you wish. You are not bound to be Harry Potter's healer forever."

She had tried not to be angry with him for this little speech, feeling that she hadn't yet earned the right to be so familiar, but she couldn't help it; she felt that he had shot her down when she had only been exploring her options. For the next few days she didn't visit him, and she had been only half-expecting it when he sought her out in the library to offer an apology of sorts.

"I thought you would be here," he said, looking into the alcove. She was reminded at this moment of how handsome he was; how strong and dignified he looked, even when stooping to apologize to an eighteen year old who felt she wasn't being taken seriously. She said nothing and he sighed and sat across from her. Worse and worse—her silence made her seem even more petulant.

From the pocket of his robe—for he wore robes at home except when he was sitting up in his room and resting his healing leg—he produced two pamphlets. He gave them to her and she knew before taking them that they would be pamphlets on training programs for Healers.

"I owled Professor McGonagall for these," he said quietly. When she said nothing still, afraid to make a bigger fool of herself, he said, "I know that you are the most intelligent student I have ever met. I have even heard you called the brighest witch of your age. When I think of what you have done for Mr Potter and for the rest of the Order, and at your age, it leaves me almost breathless with admiration. I know that you will be a credit to whichever field you choose. It was not my place to tell you which to choose, nor to withhold information which might help you in the choosing. It's just—it is only-"

"_Max_," she said, finally able to speak, "it's all right, I shouldn't have—" but he continued.

"I have spent most of my life fighting for one side or another, and everything about my choices—my academic career, where I lived, what I did with my time—has been dictated and affected by conflict. I have made all of my decisions with the hope that one day," and here he met her eye and surprised her by taking her hand—"one day we would be able to raise a new generation who would have all of the options that we never had. I only want you to know that those options are yours now, Hermione, and if you were robbed of them before—if you were robbed of the childhood that you should have had in Hogwarts where you should have been warm and well-cared for and your greatest concern should have been your marks and not Harry Potter's life—those choices are yours again now, and the wizarding world and all of its varied fields of knowledge are yours for the taking."

She had no idea why, but she felt like he was apologizing for so much more than one remark. She realized then how much of a stranger he still was; how much of a life he had lived that she not witnessed. She had forgiven him the moment he came into the room, and smiled at him with all of the sweetness she could muster, even as he seemed suddenly to realize that he was still holding on to her hand; he stood immediately, letting her go, and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For the pamphlets, and for understanding. I only want to ask—was it so obvious? That I had thought of Healing because of Harry?"

"You can't imagine how obvious," he said. "You listened raptly to every word Poppy and I exchanged in the Infirmary. I know that if you could have taken my wand and said the spells, you would have done so yourself. I should probably take a moment to tell you that I think you have done a remarkable job healing his injuries over the years. That little scar on his arm—was that your doing?"

"It was," she preened a little. "It took a bit of practice. I hope you never see Ron's little scars though—I always did a terrible job with the stitching of them, he'd never stay put."

He smiled at her then. She wondered why a face that was so clearly made for smiling was so often stern, even when his voice was warm, and he wondered if a hard life made you that way, made smiling a rare and cherished event. As he moved to leave he said, "I will also confess one thing; I had secretly harbored hopes that you would major in Potions. You say you lack innovation, but innovation is a product of a deeper knowledge of what is already existing and lacking in the field; I am certain that if you do choose to take up my field, you would be pleasantly surprised by the things you could do."

It wasn't until later that night that she shot up in bed, warm from his praise, when she remembered that his field was Herbology.

/ \ / \ / \

Life at Grimmauld place settled back into a pattern of sorts, broken only by the news of Severus Snape's pardon.

It was all over the papers and Ginny, Ron, and Hermione were lying on their stomachs in Ginny's bed, reading over each other's shoulders. The _Daily Prophet_ had thoughtfully printed the entirety of Kingsley Shacklebolt's statement about the amnesty, and included details about the particulars of Dumbledore's death. The _Quibbler_ had even better coverage about the war crimes for which Snape had been pardoned, and the article dared to suggest the awards and compensation to which he might be entitled, including a Headmaster's portrait at Hogwarts. Harry had left early in the morning to see Professor McGonagall and to persuade her to let him speak to the board of Governors.

"It's like a personal mission with him now," Ginny said wonderingly.

"I'm glad of it," Hermione said. "It makes him less antsy to have something to do, and I think he feels really terribly about his mum and Snape."

"Did he ever show you the memories?" Ron said, with the tone of someone who had been wanting to ask a question for a long time. "He never showed me."

"I don't think Harry would dare," she said. "Professor Snape was such a private man." And Harry hadn't, but he had spoken regretfully about the way Snape had loved Lily Potter and described Snape's beautiful Patronus. Hermione wondered what it would be liked, to be loved as Lily had been by such a man, and to never really know it. She figured Harry thought the portrait was the least he could do.

"But what's a pardon for?" Ginny asked, turning a page. "It's not like he can take advantage of it. Isn't he presumed dead?"

"Not yet," said Hermione. "It takes four years according to what Harry heard from the trial. Wizarding Law still makes no sense to me so I took his word for it."

"I guess it means he can be awarded things. Posthumously, like. And his will can be executed, can't it?" Ron had already turned to the _Quibbler_'s last page and was answering the crossword.

"I wonder if he left those jars with the floating animals in them to anyone," Ginny said, and she and Ron giggled; Hermione couldn't even try. It would take a long time, she believed, before she could laugh about Professor Snape. Thankfully Ginny and Ron said nothing more, and even Max was reticent on the subject.

It wasn't long before the news of Harry's campaign for Headmaster Snape's portrait made the news, and Grimmauld Place was beset with Howlers that Hermione threw into the fireplace before Harry could see. She knew that there were still people out there who hated Professor Snape, and even though the abuse made her angry—the sheer unfairness of it all—she was hard pressed to blame them. She knew the facts about the man, and had some idea now of what he had gone through, both in his unhappy youth and the last years of his life, scrambling about protecting children he neither liked nor wanted to teach; and if she couldn't quite bring herself to forgive Professor Snape entirely for killing Professor Dumbledore—she who had all the facts and had watched the life drain from Snape's eyes—how could she blame anyone else?

She did keep one letter, though; it was from Luna, and after the usual pleasantries it asked simply,

_Did you like our article about Professor Snape's pardon? I was thinking about you, and how you were so clever about him all of these years; you never said a word against him and it was your trust of him that made me more and more sure that he was on our side. Would you consider helping me writing an article about him, Hermione? We don't want to bring up more than we have to about his history, and the role he played in Harry's parents' death, and I thought you could help me pick through the facts. It might help a lot of people make up their minds about him, and it might help Harry, too._

_Yours,_

_Luna _

It was four am after a sleepless night when Hermione sent her a Patronus that said only _yes. _

/ \ / \ / \

The day that Lucius Malfoy was to be kissed, Max was nowhere to be found.

Thankfully there were no celebrations, and even Ron seemed to feel the gravity of the event; he was as quiet as the rest them, only listening while the wizarding wireless gave its account.

She walked past Max's room—once at breakfast, again at lunch and sometime after supper—and looked only at the _Atropa belladona_, well-cared for in its spot by the bed.

/ \ / \ / \

Harry's back had appeared to be healing nicely, which was why Hermione felt a stab of alarm when he said that it still hurt to move about; he was feeling particularly unwell the day after Malfoy was Kissed, and asked if she could write a note to Professor McGonagall to explain that he wouldn't make it to Hogwarts that day, since sending only a Patronus would be bordering on disrespectful. After she sent off the note, she looked at Harry closely and thought that he still wasn't gaining weight. Harry wasn't feverish and the wound was closed but he was still pale and sickly, and even sitting up made him tired.

She stayed in his room to keep a closer watch on him, worry settling like a lead weight in her stomach even as she settled her own affairs, writing letters in the comfort of Harry's desk.

She had, after much thought and without bringing up the subject with Max again, decided on a two-year apprenticeship with Horace Slughorn, who was scheduled to be back in Hogwarts for the coming year. Hogwarts' rebuilding was progressing nicely and Professor Flitwick, who was in charge of the wards, surmised that repairs would be done in two months, and it would be safe to welcome students again well before the new year. The buildings and staircases—all that had been damaged in the last conflict—had all been repaired.

Hermione had her own misgivings on settling on a field which was not her best—she had always been at her best in Charms and Transfiguration after all—but secretly still harbored a hope of becoming a Healer, and all of the Healer programs required two years worth of training either in Potions or in Transfiguration, and couldn't see the harm in choosing Potions.

As the shadows lengthened towards evening she sent off a letter to Professor Slughorn and one to Professor McGonagall, confirming that she would be leaving for Hogwarts in two days, so that she could settle in, help in organizing the Potions stores, and if they would permit her, assist in rebuilding the wards. She tried not to think about her worries about leaving Harry behind; if anything happened, Max would surely know what to do, and Hogwarts infirmary was just an apparition away, wasn't it?

While in search of the Weasley's new owl, she ran across Max himself as he made his way up the staircase. His face was twisted in pain as he limped over the last step and she looked up at his face in worry.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "The leg has been giving me a bit of trouble. It's perfectly mobile but it twinges a bit."

She frowned. "I know your leg has been hurting you, but are you hurt anywhere else? I thought I could see you wince once while you were stooping…"

"I'm fine," he said again, his tone clipped. Hermione decided to drop the subject, and remembered suddenly that she had something to give him. "I'll be right back—could you wait for me here?" she said, grasping his arm.

"If you don't mind, I'd much rather wait in my room," he said, sounding tired.

"All right. I'll see you there," she said, and it was the work of a moment to pop into her bedroom downstairs and fish out the box of chocolates she had ordered from Honeydukes. She had thought to give it to him yesterday, when she anticipated he would be feeling morose over Lucius Malfoy's sentence, but hadn't seen him the entire day. She knew perfectly well that chocolates wouldn't solve anything, but these had been infused with a Calming draught, which gave one a sense of well-being that she found comforting on the very worst days.

She knocked at his bedroom door and it swung open, probably from wandless magic. He was sitting up in his bed, his legs stretched out in front of him and under the blankets even though he was fully dressed. She came closer and tried not to look too expectant and giddy as she presented him with the box, taking the liberty of sitting on the very edge of his bed.

"This was for yesterday," she said quietly. "I was looking for you. I know he was your friend, and—" She was interrupted when, without warning or thought, Max shoved the box out of the way, grasped her upper arms and kissed her.

It seemed totally unplanned. The angle wasn't quite right and the initial impact too forceful, but in a moment, one small shift of his mouth later, it _was_ right. His hands loosened about her arms and he held her gently, and she felt in his kiss something of the coiled tension of a spring—something kept in check and controlled and not quite fully unleashed, and somehow his control made her even giddier and the kiss even sweeter; he was so very careful, and his thumb caressed the fabric of her sleeves while his mouth moved over hers, and she kept her eyes closed, feeling cherished and warm. So he had thought about it too. He wondered if he had ever fantasized about it the way she had. She kissed him back, as sweetly as she could manage, but the moment she tried to put her hand up on his chest—partly so she could touch him, partly to steady herself for she had grown dizzy—he retreated. Their lips made a wet sound as they parted, and the silence in the room was all but roaring in her ears.

The look on his face was something that would keep her awake for many nights. His eyes looked wild, as if he were stunned at the boldness of his own actions, but there was also fear. What did he have to be afraid of?

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she whispered, almost hurt. She hadn't wanted to say the words aloud but he was still looking at her, and the way his eyes darted over her face, as though he were waiting for words of rebuke or rejection, made her eyes water.

"I—I'm not certain," he said, swallowing. "I've done that so many times before, in my mind, and each time you end up running from the room."

"Why would you say that?" she pressed, wondering if she was able to sound as perplexed as she felt. "You—you _must_ know how I feel about you, or you must have had some sort of inkling. I made every excuse to see you for the past few months, and I had—I _had_ hoped—"

But he had risen from the bed, and limped to the dresser, as far away from her as possible. He braced his arms about himself, reminding her of what she thought might be a self-comforting gesture, something she had seen on someone else a long time ago…

"I should know better than this, Hermione," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I've taken advantage of the situation."

"But _how_?" Why wouldn't he tell her what she wanted to know? What did he think was so wrong with himself? "How could you think _you_ have taken advantage? Is it—my age? Am I too young?"

That seemed to stop him from descending further into the storm of self-recrimination she could see burning in his eyes. He looked at her then, fully, infusing his words with all of the sincerity he appeared to muster. "Hermione," he said slowly, "you are not _too _anything. There is nothing wrong with you." He shook his head. "There are things you don't know, Hermione, and I—"

Harry chose this moment to call for Hermione.

"Hermione! Please, come here!"

She froze in place. Something in Max's expression seemed to slide into place and she knew for certain that he had been afraid of _her_; that he had looked at her like a boy afraid of getting his heart broken. But how could that be? Of the two of them it was she who had thought she was more likely to be rejected, given her age and her inexperience, not to mention the hundred things she thought was wrong with her appearance. Had he thought that she was in love with Harry? The thought seemed to come out of nowhere, and yet the way he looked at her now, expecting her to go thoughtlessly to answer Harry's call, suggested that he had been afraid of that very thing.

She stood unsteadily, and tried not to run out of the room, as he had feared she would. She walked to him and tried to look at him as an equal would, levelheaded and calm, even though her thoughts were spiralling in all directions.

"Harry is still ill," she said slowly. "I need to go to him now, but Max—whatever it is you say I don't know, I hope you will at least consider that I am in the best position to know my own feelings, so if that's the only thing stopping you…" she wasn't certain what to say next.

"You will hate me," he said in a whisper.

"How could I hate you?" she burst out, bewildered.

Harry called again, sounding more frantic this time.

They both jumped.

"I think he might need to go to the infirmary again," she whispered.

"Would you like me to accompany you there?"

"You couldn't possibly. I saw how much pain you were in earlier. Please stay here and rest and I'll go get Mr Weasley." She stayed in place, torn between wanting to see to Harry and wanting to make sure Max didn't flee from the room the moment her back was turned; he had that air about him, of a bird about to take flight. She fixed the sight of him in her mind. He breathed as though he had been running, and she knew for sure that he had been as affected as she had been; that the sweetness of their kiss had mattered not only to her but to him, too, and that these past few months she had not been the only one aware of the possibilities between them; and she longed to say these things, to tell him that her fascination had grown into the beginnings of love. And yet she had no time to say them, nor the appropriate words at her disposal, so she stood on tiptoe and kissed him instead, briefly.

"I don't know how long we'll be at St Mungo's," she said, "But I'll try to be back as soon as I can, and may we talk when I'm back?"

"You need to go," he said instead, closing his eyes.

"Please," she said urgently.

He looked at her. "I'll know where to find you."

/ \ / \ / \

She had planned to pack for Hogwarts for the remaining two days before her promised arrival for her apprenticeship. Seeing Harry vomiting into a bucket, as Ginny shot her a reproachful look, put an end to all of those plans, and before she knew it all of the contents of her room had been shrunk and shoved haphazardly into her beaded bag, and she and Mr Weasley were on their way to Hogwarts.

She heard nothing from Max for the next two days, and though unbelievably hurt by it, she convinced herself that her energies were put to better use taking care of Harry. The wound had superficially healed, according to the mediwitch, but an infection had set in deep inside, and Hermione hoped that it was nothing more sinister than that. Even as she unpacked and discussed her syllabi with Professor Slughorn, who was happy to receive her but distracted by the labors of restoring the wards in the storage rooms, Hermione spent most of her time with Harry.

This was not to say that she hadn't thought of Max. At the worst moments she imagined she felt on her lips the pressure of his own, and remembered so clearly the hitching breath he took when she kissed him back. She had wanted him to press her firmly against his own pillows; she had wanted to kiss him far longer than he had. But more important than any physical intimacy, she felt the loss of the man keenly; there was hardly a day that she hadn't passed by his room to talk or to ask about his leg, and he had become a comforting presence at the end of the day, at turns challenging and gentle. When she had been stagnating, thinking that one day was much like another and losing all hope and motivation in planning for her educational future, he had encouraged her to think and helped her to believe that the Wizarding world could be wonderful for her again. How could she not want him?

/ \ / \ / \

The routine of doing the Potions storeroom inventory, reinstalling old wards and falling asleep beside Harry's infirmary bed was broken by the news that the Burrow had been rebuilt. It had been the main focus of George Weasley's energies for the past two months, and he had worked with both Molly and Arthur to make sure that Ottery St Catchpole would be a safe place to come back to. Hermione cared little for the rebuilding of her own childhood home—it was unlikely that she or her parents would ever live there again—but she was happy that the Weasleys could begin to resume something of their old life. She had a note from Ron inviting her to come over, and a slightly subdued one from Ginny who told Hermione that she could have her own room in the new Burrow, and wouldn't she like to decorate it? It was quick work to ask for permission from Professor Slughorn—it was after all a weekend—and she found herself in the Burrow at last.

It looked much like it used to, if slightly more spacious and less likely to topple over. Old Wellingtons greeted her from beside the door, and the she could hear the chickens clucking in the distance. The front door was open. The family clock was in the living room, and she felt a rush of affection at seeing that she and Harry had their own hands. (Harry's read, "Hogwarts"; hers read "home", while Ron and George's hands were pointing to "Quidditch"; and none of the hands were pointing to "Mortal peril.") She could hear Molly singing from somewhere in the garden. She saw Ron and George through the window, their forms appearing and disappearing in between the high trees of the orchard behind the Weasley home. At the sound of a foot on the stair, Hermione turned to see Ginny, who ushered her into the kitchen.

Ginny looked well. She seemed to be wearing new clothes, and Molly appeared to have cut her hair; the fringe that had been growing too long was well-kempt again, and Ginny looked more and more like the girl she had envied for being so popular and so pretty back in Hogwarts. She was busy making tea and telling Hermione about the difficulties George was having in securing permits for his business, now that it was safe to get it started up again.

"I think Ron wants to help with the shop, but I'm not sure George wants to let him," she said, setting down their teacups.

"Why not? That doesn't sound like him."

"It isn't that he doesn't want Ron around. I think he just wants to make sure Ron keeps his options open, instead of hiding in the family shop. Ron doesn't seem very motivated about the future, you know…"

Hermione thought of herself and the desultory way she had been planning for post graduate studies. "I don't know if you'll believe this, but I can understand how he feels."

"Do you? Maybe you can talk to him. At least you're getting started on your Healer career. How's it going with Slughorn?"

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. Sometimes it feels like we'll never be done sorting through the mess in the dungeons and we'll never be able to get started on my actual curriculum. I've only just found out that Professor Slughorn signed me up to teach first year classes! Only the ones on basic Potions technique and safety, but I'm not sure that's a standard part of a Potions apprenticeship…"

Somewhere in the house a door slammed shut, and Mrs Weasley came into the kitchen, not looking surprised to see Hermione there. Hermione was enveloped into a warm embrace and gestured for Molly to sit down so she could be given tea, but Molly stayed where she was, standing by the doorway, looking at both girls with an unreadable expression and a nervous smile.

"I'm glad you're here, Hermione," she said. "And you too, Ginny. I don't believe that there's an easy way to say this, but… I suppose you'll find out soon enough…"

Hermione could say nothing; her mouth was dry. The clock had _said_ that none of them were in mortal peril, hadn't it? What could be so horrible that Molly would look at them like that, pale and at a loss for words?

Molly was wringing her hands. "Well, Hermione dear, I suppose I should just come out and say it. Someone's here to see you. You'll find him in the living room…"

Hermione's heart felt like it had first fallen into her stomach, and then tried to soar beyond her ribcage. Max! It could only be Max. She gave Molly a brilliant smile and ran past her into the living room, her heartbeat loud in her own ears. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of a dark figure in the living room, his back to her. But then she would have recognized that dark figure anywhere, for she saw him in her dreams almost every night.

The hooked nose was the same; the limp, oily hair had been cut very much shorter, and today he appeared to have made an effort to slick it back tidily. The curling lips were fixed into a grim line. He was still wearing a cloak but his robes were not the teaching robes she had always seen him wear. He turned to look at her, face blank, and said nothing at first, as though trying to read her expression before venturing on any of his own.

"Hermione," he said finally, and she couldn't help it—she winced. The last words she had ever heard him say were _Look at me. _She heard it every night. The voice was the same. But she had never been _Hermione_ before; she had always been Miss Granger, had always been Know-it-all and Insufferable.

"Professor Snape," she said. Thoughts flew about in her mind like the birds she had conjured to attack Ron after she had caught him with Lavender; they went in every direction and filled her head with so much noise that she wondered how it was that she was still standing there silent when her mind was in chaos. She couldn't settle on a single feeling. Was it to be relief that he had survived after all, and appeared alive and well? Was it her chance now to apologize for leaving him behind in the Shrieking Shack when she could have tried harder to save him? Could she weep with the happiness that he could now stop haunting her dreams since he was safe? Could she finally ask him the question that she had long wanted to ask: _how could you? _

At her words he seemed to flinch, and then to recover himself, turning to face her more fully. He took one step closer, and did not dare to advance more; Hermione thought that she probably looked like she would run from the room. Her mind was working more quickly now. Why would he ask for her in particular? Why not ask for her and Ginny at the same time—why not call for Ron and George as well? Had Molly known this entire time? It hadn't occurred to Hermione to ask herself if he could be trusted, if she was safe here alone with him, but she wondered about everything else. Where had he been hiding? How had he lived? Had he only emerged now because of the news of his pardon?

"I hope you're well," he said slowly, and more formally this time. He stood before her with his back straight and his arms folded over one another. Why was that stance so familiar… and there was that gesture he had of rubbing with one hand the sleeve of the other one…

"I'm very glad to see you're alive," she finally mustered, because it was true. "Harry will be pleased as well."

He nodded. "I've gone to see him. I'm not sure how much of me he saw. He appears to be under some form of sedation."

"It helps him sleep; otherwise he fidgets and Madam Pomfrey can't get him to lie quietly." She crossed her arms about herself, mirroring his stance, and waited for things—for _him_—to make sense.

"How are you," he said, and it took her a moment to register. She blinked.

"I—I beg your pardon?"

He flushed suddenly, and she had never thought that Severus Snape could ever look embarrassed.

"Forgive me," he said quickly. "It is only—I've heard from my—colleagues that you have decided on a Potions apprenticeship in Hogwarts. It appears I must congratulate you."

Could he really be here? Was Severus Snape—loyal but wildly unpleasant, the one Professor who had never heaped her with praise, the man who had looked at her and said _I see no difference_—really here, making polite and stilted conversation with her, asking about her academic career? She could say nothing.

Suddenly she wanted him to leave; she wanted to be by herself, to crawl back into her room at Hogwarts so she could lie down and think about what it meant that he was alive. What was the next intelligent step? Was there something required of her? Did he want an apology? Did he want to apologize? She could hardly care at the moment, and it was her desire to be alone then that pushed her to ask finally, "Was there something you needed?"

He hadn't taken his eyes off her, and she was so uncomfortable that she found herself looking away and at the floor, feeling self-conscious in her Muggle jeans and large sweater. He seemed to make up his mind then, and moved closer to her; too quickly for her to be able to do anything but step back, almost tripping over her own feet. He caught her arm before she could fall, and on instinct she shrugged it off, aghast both at him and at herself. He was looking at her, as if siezed by some great emotion, before he pulled something out from his robes—a box—

-A _Honeydukes box—_

Her mind seemed to shut down for a moment; and it was on the tip of her tongue to say, "What have you done with Max?!" But the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place too quickly for that, and it took less than a second to jump to the correct conclusion. His familiar eyes—that self-comforting gesture, that mistake he made while talking to her about Potions… the way he had said to Ron, _boy!_ And how Ron had obeyed instantly, as if confused… calling her the brightest witch of her age—and who in "the Hebrides" would have ever spoken to him about her except for Albus Dumbledore? Fighting for "one side or another"… living a life dictated by conflict… words and words and words flit back and forth across her consciousness, before it could come to her finally—

The strong grasp on her arm, and a kiss, short but cherished, in a dark room.

Max looking at her the way Severus Snape looked at her now, afraid, certain of rejection.

In a moment she had gone; the front door of the Burrow swung on its hinges behind her, and she could hear only the faint sound of a strangled _Hermione!_ before Apparition took her away.

(_end of chapter)_

/ \ / \ / \

Author's notes:

I started in this fandom in 2001 and my first ship was HP/HG. It wasn't long before I shipped DM/HG and I was around for the very first SS/HG fic and after that there was no turning back, really. But there's still something special about the relationship between Harry and Hermione that I always go back to and can never belittle. My favorite story that has ever illustrated this within the dynamics of an SS/HG ship is Arsenic's Rule of Law. "She always had time for Harry. She imagined she always would." If you had time to read this story, you should definitely make time to read all of hers.

I don't really know what happened. One moment I was taking a break from studying and reading some of my old fic drafts; the next thing I knew I'd written ten thousand words. If there are errors, I would appreciate your pointing them out—hopefully politely.

I know I haven't been around very much. To those of you whose messages I haven't replied to, to old fandom friends I lost in touch with… I'm deeply sorry. I want to blame med school but know that it was my own discipline and lack of laziness that kept me so far behind.

The nex part will be up in a few days.


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